Alexandros, Private Thoughts
by Lysis
Summary: A story of Alexandros, as he might have been newly come to the throne as told as though he is dictating it to Peritas, perhaps. (This is material I cut from my novel and thought I would share it.)
1. Chapter 1

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 1

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

A story of Alexander as he has just come to the throne - told as though he were dictating it to Peritas, perhaps. (This is material I cut from my novel and thought I would share it.)

* * *

One

To my rooms I have consigned myself for the evening. My new rooms of State are indeed lavish, but void of my boyhood comforts. Great clothes chests full of furs to pile upon the bed in the depths of winter, and fur edged mantles. Rich furnishings which come from Khmet, Rhodes, Athens, Persia and gold, so much gold, that my eye becomes sore beneath its steady glow. I never knew that shining material could cause one to tear up in self-defense.

My laughter echoes the room as though it is drunk itself on this new power. I recall my teacher Leonidas and his nightly raids of my clothes' chests when I was a boy. What would he say now to such largess? No doubt some smooth, subtle rebuke to me on waste. I think I will send the man a rich cloak all lined in bear fur with a great-jeweled clasp. It will have garnets from India and amethysts from Bactria upon it, yellow golden citrines and Khmet's famed lapis. I will design the clasp myself, a great barbaric thing which will shout out to all the low tastes of his unfortunate foster child. I chuckle at my musings; we shall see how well he wears his austerity. Peritas, my dog, who has been lying near the warm hearth open his eyes and studies me anxiously. He has been locked up here within for an hour at least and captor to my inconsistent moods. I can see he wonders at my sanity. It is clear in the tenor of his gentle black gaze. He is a good dog, a wonderful god, all soul and great heart.

Without my closest confidant from boyhood, Hephaistion, son of Amyntor, to share my thoughts, musings and ill-timed laughter these things have fallen upon Peritas' smooth brown head.

"It is nothing, Peritas." I tell him soothingly. "I am merely entertaining a torment toward Leonidas." His head bobs in agreement and he draws his eyes to the smallest slits as though his thoughts too center on the man. Poor Peritas, he too often has been the recipient of my woeful tales of difficulties at Leonidas' hands as a boy. However, to do the man justice, his governance has brought me to the man I am today. Hard work and struggle are the fabric of great heroes such as my ancestor, Herakles. I'll not distain such ways.

I am most lazy. An unkingly activity tonight as I lie on this great new bed that has an immense black, silvery, and ivory headboard. It is dressed with cool linens that shine like foam upon the sea, or so I am told. Nearkhos, another boyhood friend, a Kretan by descent, speaks of these things of Ocean and many far-flung seas; I've yet to see such a thing, but am sure I shall. The bed curtains wear Macedonian sunbursts my mother worked in her own hand in thread of gold. The first night I slept in here, Hephaistion was caught in them, accidentally, and I would not free him from them unless he offered a kiss as payment. They are now the richest bed curtains in all Hellas as they have been bought with his lips. More rich coverings dress the sheets. The blue and red woven coverlet that had long lain on my bed has been replaced with a great splendid swathe of red and gold in the softest of materials edged with white fox tails. It is well to lie upon and Hephaistion found it smooth enough for sleep even on the floor, as he lies barring the door on nights he is not on duty but in my rooms. I smile still thinking on the smile on his face as he rubbed the silky fibers against his tanned skin and the delight in his eyes glowing like a child's when they have been told they are going to a festival. Yet, little else is left me. My mother consigned the rest to the children's nursery. I brood a bit; I miss my pair of little lamps with their painted tales of Herakles. The lamp I read by now is gold and ivory, a handsome thing, to be sure, for a gold and ivory Artemis holds the moon full in her hand for me to read by, but I would have Herakles to light my reading. He is whom I have known since a child. Leaning back across a gold tasseled pillow I take Hephaistion's little lion into my hand and kiss it. The lion is always with me, even now, my side he does not leave, save for when he is with Hephaistion. It is something I cherish as much as I cherish its giver. So, here I lay surrounded by gold, ivory, rare woods, precious materials. Yet, I am the most ungrateful of sons, yes, this is what my mother said when I told her to touch nothing of my things, that I would live as I long have in the room of my youth. She laughed, truly it was a rather merry sound, for her eyes twinkled, and she pinched my cheek, and turned to her ladies and within an hour of the water clock I was transformed, at least my rooms where. The truth is I would be happier in my tent among my men, but for now, I reside for reasons of State in the palace. Antipater has guided me wisely in this, as there are still delegations to receive from Athens and other polis with regard to my Father's death. It is my duty as Basileos to see that he is honored properly.

I settle back hoping sleep will come on it does not. My hand is restless and finds my bed box. I pull my _Iliad_ forth and as I do, cold iron brushes my fingertips. With a sigh, I close my eyes, as my fingers explore my dagger, my protection. So many kings of Macedon have died by violence, that it is now custom to keep a dagger beneath our pillow. I test the point and sharpness with my fingers, I suck the torn skin, and a single drop stains the snowy linen near my throat. It is sharp, it is at the ready should invaders make it this far. However, I will be ready for them no one shall take from me what is mine, I smile on the thought, my hands on the dagger again, no one.

I pull out _Iliad_, but find I cannot read. It is all too new. I am now _Basileos,_ of all of Macedonia and Hellas. I, a twenty-year old soldier am ruler of all the might of the great army of my father, Philippos, son of Perdikkas. I have not, until this moment asked myself how this _truly_ sits with me.

I came to the throne from behind a bier, my fathers'. He was murdered and I, his son... I his son who fought with him, who saved his life… who lead his army to victory against other Hellenes, whom he twice tried to kill, I Alexandros, his son …. I pause as my heart is beating fast, reaching into my throat, I must find his true killers.

Were they Persian, Hellene, or perhaps Macedonian? Who besides Pausinas, his commander of the guard wielded that knife that slammed into his ribs taking his life's breath? Who indeed?

Continue to Part 2…


	2. Chapter 2

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 2

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

A story of Alexander as he has just come to the throne. Told as though he were dictating it to a scribe, perhaps.

Picks up right after Part 1.

* * *

Two

I'll not dine with my _hetaerae_ this night, but instead would savor the solitude of my own thoughts. In truth I've little desire for food, a simple soup, some bread that is all I ate, in spite of the lavish feast my _hetaerae_ dinned on. It is my duty to see that they are well fed. But, I have plenty of wine, I'll not thirst in the night for I can see from the corner of my eye the _rhyton_ set in a snow cooled bowl on the table set next to my bed. I study with a sudden curiousness the relief along the large bowl's rim, letting my finger rove along the perfect, but tiny features of my own face and horse. I count the other faces depicted on the relief, Ptolemy, Krateros, Hephaistion and others. It is a pleasing thing to me. It was a gift from the Guild of Hephestus, the gold smiths, upon my taking rule of Macedon, and shows my victory at Chaeronea, against the Sacred Band and my taming of Boukephalus. It is a handsome thing and I have made clear to my pages it is to be with my things always, not left back here in Pella when I ride on campaign. My pages creep about while I pretend to sleep adding ice and stirring the wine to freshness. I spy upon them beneath my barely open eyes. There is a new one, he is quite comely with hair the color of the sun, and dark grey eyes, but I put aside those thoughts. I'll wait for Hephaistion. I would wait for him forever, and it will not be forever, he will return soon, this I know, I can feel it in the very air around me.

I have tried to tame my thoughts, whipped at them with curses for silence, but they speak to me as loudly as did the shouting of the men as I lead them thru maneuvers earlier today. They jostle me, my thoughts, the same as my army did when I came out from the palace and was proclaimed before all assembled _Basileos._ It was a high moment, one that will live long in my soul and never forget. No matter the deeds I accomplish, hereafter, that one moment when Apollo was warm upon my shoulders and the taste of Dionysius' gift was sweet in my mouth, I will savor it always, for I knew then my daemon had spoke true and I was as the sun itself.

I will spit for luck and promise Zeus a fat lamb, should he take my enthusiasm as a sign for something more, and think me reaching too high just yet, for in years, I am still young; but I do have now my goal, I am high king of Macedon. After a quick supper, earlier this night, I rode with only my bodyguard to the shrine of the _Hetaerae t_o offer for Hephaistion's safety. It stays in my mind that he should be safe and protected, as much as possible. My mother did sacrifice for him before he left, killing a pure white dog, the magic she was using was that of Shekmet and I know little of its ways, I do know that he is in good company, but I long for his return. When I as king, officially celebrate the _Hetairideia_, that festival of companionship among men, this year, I will be sure to offer extra sacrifices for all those _hetaerae _who have helped me to this point. I will make an offering at the shrine of Jason, son of Aeson and his Argonauts on the morrow, after I complete my state duties at the temple here. Indeed Jason understands such things, as friendship of the soul. I find myself smiling and my spirits lift a bit.

Ah, I think to myself, such a thing to be a king, and then smile when I hear the sound of my laugher echo about the room, such a thing it is to be a Macedonian who _lived_ to be a king.

"Peritas come", I pat the bed, and make a space for him, his red-gold fur glows in the firelight, and he makes soft noises as he rises and pads toward me. I kiss his head and receive a wet nose in return, he climbs on the bed settling at my feet keeping them warm, and my thoughts drift back weeks.

Continue to Part 3…


	3. Chapter 3

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 3

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

Picks up from Part 2.

* * *

Three

My father lay quiet, at last, his spirit succored and buried in his tomb with the splendor of Macedonian gold glittering in the eternal dark surrounding him. It was only right - fitting that he, such a great ruler should feel comfort from the gold that was now a sign of Macedon's wealth and pride, along with its invincible army. The long years of patronage had been buried with him, in the form of shimmery, delicate crowns of golden wheat stalks, and laurel wreaths. Now he would spend his days with the gods in feasting and enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife. With my own hand I had placed his favorite gold and silver wine krater and cups in one corner of his tomb, after I had placed his weapons near his sarcophagus.

My sister, Kleopatra, placed our father's most favored wine cup, of pure, chased gold, bearing the image of great bulls on both sides, next to his gold and lapis inlaid dagger, which never left his side, even while he lay in the arms of Morpheus. Nightly they would rest beneath his pillow. The dagger to protect his life, and the cup - was it not quick thinking to have a cup so handy should he thirst in the night? As a boy I would laugh at his quick wit. As a man grown, and King myself, I understand his message. The cup would rest beneath his pillow close to him so that he might not forget what the gods had given him, and the dagger to remind him how quickly it could be lost. This is what he told me when he made me regent, when I was but sixteen summers, while he went north on campaign.

Now they reside next to the gold larnax bearing his bones.

My sister, Kleopatra's eyes were luminous with tears and her lovely face reddened from weeping. She, so lately made a bride, now was burying her father. I took her hand, small and fragile in mine and squeezed it gently. "He is at peace now, dear sister." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Her silky, dark auburn hair which escaped the confines of her himation brushed my face. The scent of roses hung about her. Never again would the perfume of roses be sweet for me – they became flowers of mourning. I gave her into her husband's care, my uncle, Alexandros of Epiros, and turned back toward my father's tomb and set a pair of my father's greaves at the door of his tomb. For this was what Philippos of Macedon was, before he was the king and Hegemon of the Hellenes, he was, as I am, a warrior. He bore the tattoo of the Dioscuri upon his person. In his youth he was initiated into their mysteries, as was I. As my eyes seek the deepest recesses of his tomb, they find most easily, most quickly these things, his swords, his shield, his lances; they are as much him as his favorite wine cup.

"Go to the Gods, father, for now you are one with them. May they take your pain and transform it into joy. May you know only the grant of your desires in the peace of Elysium, and forget the strife of this world." I prayed softly, as I turned, torch in hand after pressing close the great door on his tomb. I let fall the spray of white roses, clutched in my hands, at the foot of the closed door. I found myself standing alone for a moment, as the mist of early morning rose up around me. The fire from his pyre was smoldering red-orange still. It would not be doused with wine, but rather left to burn itself out.

I thought myself back a spare handful of sad hours, standing beside my mother, at his pyre. She wore her black widows' weeds a little too sleekly, and I kept a sharp eye for her tears. His other wives, mourned him in a more seemly manner. Their tear stained faces showed pale against the bitter darkness of their mourning robes. Their lamentations rose wild and high toward Olympus, and their long black lined eyes bled with sorrow. I cannot say for some, if it was any more real than my mother's, but Eurydike, his young new wife, her eyes were stained red from weeping, and my heart burned in my breast for her sorrow. Whether she had loved him, I know not, for she was still much a child, having known but fifteen summers, but now….? All I need do was slide my eyes toward my mother and watch the steeling glint in those grey orbs. There was nothing soft there when they would alight on Eurydike; they were all hardness and cruelty. Were my mother's eyes to speak words, they would say to her "follow your king onto his pyre until you are white ash, for that is all the justice I will allow you, here. For Macedon is now my son's."

I know my mother well. I blink, thinking for a moment, as a memory long forgotten invades, and I sway against its images. Hephaistion, sensing the change in me, turns and smiles patting my shoulder, we exchange glances, his is soft and sad. He knew my father as his King, as his general and as a man. He respected the King; loved the general and as to the man - he knew his foibles and weaknesses, but honored him still; as to my mother, he is always elegant in his courtesy and constant to do her the honor, she is due. He does not treat with her as he would his own mother, as she is his queen, but he wishes her well, and at times I can hear them laugh together when I come into her rooms, to find him already there with a fist full of bright flowers to grace her dressing tables. Hephaistion has been kissed upon the brow by Apollo he has gifted him with a graceful voice, and a gentle glow shines from his eyes when it pleases him to do so. My mother has become his unwilling conquest.

Yet, do not mistake me, neither are they trusting friends. She wants no other in my heart. It ought to be the province of her alone, and will not forgive Hephaistion for usurping her place. She cannot grasp that I can love them both, and I do, though differently.

She knows I am safe with Hephaistion, so she wishes him well, and has been good to him, especially when he came as a child of eleven summers, to live in the palace. However, now he is a man, and she never fails to remind me, in her subtle, voiceless manner, that he holds much power with me, perhaps too much for her to be comfortable with. She reminds me, he is not of royal blood. Yet in truth, I know it is more than that. "Let him be your confidant, the Plato to your Dion, but forsake the role of Akhilleus with him." Her voice, a bare whisper trying to banish the promise given at my birth curls in my ear with these words. But the smoke from her offering fire swirls heavenward, and she can hear Apollo's voice in the wind, and cries while she holds a curling lock of my hair, that she clipped when I was a child. She keeps this lock in a small alabaster urn, and has taken also a lock of Hephaisiton's to place therein, and set them together upon her altar. This urn she protects with the strongest magic.

We both, Hephaistion and I will feel more at ease when we are away from Macedon. She, in turn, studies him wondering at length what hold he has over me, for she knows it is more than the physical, and I believe she is envious. That my father could not grasp it, I pardon him, he, I think did not ever truly love another, but I think there was a place in him that sought and craved affection, Black Kleitos' red rimmed eyes and loud sobs attest to this, but my mother knows what love is, yet in her hands it has become grasping and greedy. It was not always this way. When I was a boy, she was the best of mothers, but as I grew older and my troubles with my father began, she, in her fears, changed, and grew cagey. The crimes she committed against me are silent ones, they have pierced the hidden recesses in my heart, for there are times I cannot still believe they happened. But my wariness around her tells me what I would forget, and at times almost do. Still, in all I know, she has always loved me, but not perhaps as a mother should, especially when I was older. I will not think on these troubling thoughts now.

And I think on my father, again. We had been enemies, yea, this is true, but we had always been father and son, and I would not take from him the glory he had so hard earned. But did I breathe more easily? Did my mind rest a bit more at peace knowing Philippos of Macedon, Hegemon of the Greeks was no more? How many men were wondering on this? And how many could guess the truth. I was now the new King of Macedon. Did I welcome the passing of power to my hand?

Yes, my Soul had answered for me, long before the words left my lips. I would not disguise the joy, that rose constant in my breast, with false humility when my dreams were finally taking form. I would not be so disdainful of the gods who had granted me them. Yet, I knew I would miss the man, the father of the child I once had been. Then I turned myself and stood before the mute doors of his tomb. Did I truly, was I still lying to myself?

I could feel still the sting of his hand against my face, when he cracked his fist against my cheek, when we fought with vicious words, just a bare six full moons ago. Twice within the last few years, he had sought to kill me. The first time at his wedding, and then again, this time, truly I believed his intent was clear, as he was not drunk when he came to my guarded chamber, after I had been betrayed for my bid with Pixadoros. I remember still the cold rasp of the blade of his sword against my throat.

"I should end this now, for such a son as you, is no son at all. Go to your faithless witch of a mother." He stood before me, and swung the blade of his sword in my direction. I did not bow my head, if I was to die, it would be proudly, not as his son, but as the man I knew myself to be. His hand stopped just short of allowing the sharp edge to cut too deeply. I could still, deep in the night, recall the cold spill of my blood as it fell upon my breast. I recall my words to him, "If you are to do it, then do it, do not think to frighten me with your sword play. I would not do the same to you. I would swing, and your head would roll out there upon the shining floor." He then struck me such a blow in the face that it rocked me off my feet, and left me locked in my chambers, a prisoner. But that was not the cruelest blow, oh no, for my father knew how to bite deep, until the cry left one's lips unbidden.

He had brought me before him later in the day, and then called in the guard to bring their prisoner. I'll never forget the gasp that left my lips and the way his thick one's formed that triumphant smile, as Hephaistion entered between two armed guards.

Hephaistion his nose crusted with blood came forward calmly one would not have thought him in peril, so dignified was his bearing. At times it seems nothing can disturb his deep composure. He is wiser than I in such ways. I have often told him of his, he is the stillness that my Soul seeks. My father knew how to wound me where it would not show. I crumbled at the first sight of him. My voice froze in my mouth, only my miserable eyes, which beseeched him for Hephaistion, could answer his words. So with words unspoken, or swords not raised, did he win a battle? But I hid away my pride, and made ready to meet him. When next we came upon the field that time, I took the prize.

And of Hephaistion? After all my father had done to him, he still honored his King. Hephaistion is above all things a Macedonian. He is the man I honor above all else, even the gods, though I would only keep this deep in the most secret places of my Soul, lest they become jealous and seek to harm him.

One day, when I am writing my memoirs, I will write the truth of my father's actions; they were not the mere scolding of which Philotas might have one think, for Philotas was there and witnessed it all. True, my father exiled my friends, but he showed his distain of the gods, when later he had brought before him my emissary who acted for me in Caria Thettalos the tragedian. Thettalos is known not only as a crown winner of the Lenia and other contests, but as a man in the sacred service of the god Dionysius. The god protects Thettalos. That my father should transgress in this and harm him, is truly to me at least, hubris. . I begged on bended knee for Thettalos' life, for he had thrown himself in the way of the Fates in my service. True, my voice, I kept silent lest it condemn Hephaistion when my father had him brought forth. For had I opened my mouth to speak against my father's ill use of Hephaistion, I would have condemned us both to the cross, and this my father knows. Perhaps it was his deepest wish. This I will never know, but it wounded me deeply. And this Hephaistion understands, but he is also solider, he knows the risks of such a life. However, Thettalos is not, he is a servant of the god, and I begged most piteously for Thettalos' life, when all the while Philippos had known he would spare him. How could I not beg for this good man? This servant of Dionysus, it would be hubris to allow such a cruel deed to be done. Do I set myself higher than the gods, when casting my eyes upon the sufferings of my friends? For Hephaistion I would give my soul, can I offer less than my life for Thettalos, who also is a good friend? My father is a man who will always steal the scene if he is able, caring little how it might look to an artist; for he is naught but an amateur – he has no art in his soul only baseness. . However, that was only for show, to prove he could bend me to his will. His actions with Hephaistion, I will think on no more. I know my father, and his works that day, were not a pretty jest to bring bright cheers to an entranced audience. No, the Chorus sang long before of such sorrows to be, and I knowing well the signs, heard from the god walk the voice of _Apollo Loxias_ in my ears. He whispered to be watchful of the snake that lies as though asleep, for there upon my father's brow was the cruel desire for that I could not but be moved, and for that, I'll not forgive him.

I turn toward the sound of the mourners and the wind blows the scent from the pyre toward me. Underlying the stench of burnt flesh, that not even the richest of spices can mask, some odor from the ash on the pyre calls to me.

Continue to Part 4.


	4. Chapter 4

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 4

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

Picks up after Part 3

* * *

Four

I raise my head, the way Boukephalus raises his when we are hunting and he scents the prey. It is rain-wet earth, laden with the musk of decaying leaves in the rich mud that is pleasant on small hands. It makes good miniature fortresses, which dry hard in the hot sun of the Macedonian summer. In my mind's eye, I see the parade ground of the army. I am a child again, no more than four or five summers at most. I had come with my father to review the troops.

There was a small detachment at the treasury, and another at the palace, for the king is never without protection, but the army's larger garrison was set just north of the lake, some two or three stadia away. It is not a distance far enough from Pella's Agora, complain Pella's good mothers, for on a feast night, when the troops swamp the town, no boy or girl, be they of high or low breeding, is safe. This however, does not stop those curious youths from their parents' stern warnings. Indeed, as a young warrior myself, I learned the pleasure, the sight of my flashing arms brought to the kitchen girl and the armorer's assistant, who would leave his forge to follow behind my footsteps, while Hephaistion and I tramped down the white stone streets, laughing and dodging our tail, until once we dragged the boy, for he was indeed quite pretty of face and had the strength that comes from wielding the hammer to the forge, into a wine shop with us. Of that evening, we will leave only secret smiles and songs to the honor of Eros to die in the evening breeze.

It was by the great green, reed edged lake that the army camped. I knew it well from my summers as a boy and time spent there in the company of the soldiers.

After standing on parade with him, my father announced that I had pleased him with my behavior and as a treat could stay in camp the rest of the day and over night. This was my first visit to the camp, which was for more than a few hours at a time, and I was preening and full of pride and delight. I sat my chestnut pony, Kalos, tall and stately, mimicking my father's demeanor. My riding boots were my greatest pride, and I made sure to pester every trooper with my delight in them. They were a miniature version of the Cavalry's riding boots; open toed, brown suede and laced up to my knee. It was summer and the same yellow-bordered cloak of the Royal Pages graced my shoulders and my light chiton. The pages, of course, wore nothing beneath theirs, as was the custom.

After the review was over, I was dismissed to the care of a page, Leander, a tall redhead, who to me seemed nearly as old as my father. To him my father turned, sternly admonishing to keep a firm eye on me, and he and his generals went toward a large grouping of tents for their noonday meal. I saw my little pony, Kalos, led toward the stables, supervised his grooming, and fed him a handful of oats and then left him in the care of the stable hands.

It had rained hard the night before, a freak occurrence in the Macedonian summer, but I delighted in the fresh, ebony clay and bent myself to a task. I would build a new fortress for my father's troops. This one would withstand even the wooden horse of Ulysses. None would breach its walls, save I, and I, being its architect, would not destroy my creation. Therefore, I set myself busily, singing loudly and happily, to forming my great fortresses. The walls went up quickly, the ramparts were a bit trickier, but I got them formed right, when Sostrikles, an old friend, and officer in the Companion Cavalry came to help me. He had a permanent squint in his right eye and a long puckered scar running from his nose to where his upper lip should have been. Most children ran from him in fright. However, I knew him and trusted him, as I did many of these old veterans of my father's. He would take me in his great battle scared hands and toss me high in the air, and I would cry out for him to toss me higher and higher. He would laugh loudly, and shout out that if I went any higher, I could steal Apollo's chariot, and should I do that, my father would have to go before Father Zeus to beg my return, for he was sure Apollo would keep a boy as pretty as I for himself.

We worked industriously for hours until the outer walls were strong and firm. So determined was I on completing my garrison, that I refused my noon meal and forsook the nap, Leander insisted I take. I remember stamping my small suede clad foot at him, and demanding that he bring me some hard straight wood and good, strong river stones for the barrack walls, and fresh, clear water with which to mix a good, hard mud. I told him my soldiers would rest beneath the strongest, safest barracks that the gods could provide. I would see them safe, dry, well rested and fed, and not a second could go by unless this was seen to.

He shook his head at me, muttering under his breath, and left me in the care of another page. I soon became sleepy in the rising heat of the day. The other page, Demades, coaxed me to a small nap, saying even the greatest of warriors must rest now and again. He baited his trap with a promised tale of red haired Akhilles, son of Peleus, who went to Troy at sixteen to fight King Priam and his fearsome Apollonian guard.

In, Dassaretis, a canton close to Epirus' borders, from which Demades hailed, was an ancient legend of Achilles with Castor and Polydeuces, also the sons of Zeus going cattle raiding. However, it happened while they were on their raid, that they came upon the swift winged little brother of Apollo, Hermes, who was much pleased with himself for having recently invented the lyre, and he suggested that just to the south of the field of cattle they sought, were better cattle, richer and fatter. Their flesh was most succulent and sweet and would tempt even Kerberos to leave Hades for a taste of it. Of course, they would not doubt the word of a god, and the three of them set out with Hermes, who was flitting ahead on his small gold winged sandals. And indeed, they reached the pasture, and saw before them hundreds of fat, black bulls. Their lowing was like the song of the summer wind, dulcet and promising. Akhilles unslung his bow, drew an arrow from his quiver, and let out a war cry as it made its way toward the flank of the fattest bull. It found its mark, and down it fell, the ground thundering under its great weight. Castor and Polydeuces began to gather wood to light a fire, and Hermes flew to a nearby river to fetch good, sweet water. Just as they were getting ready to share the rich meat, up flew an angered Apollo with Zeus at his side.

I had long heard of Akhilles, before I could walk, I could sing of him in my cradle, but I had never heard this particular tale. So for the price of the story, I would agree to rest. I was just falling to into Morpheus' reaching arms, dreaming myself in Akhilles' place, with my bow at my back and the tender flesh of the bull smoking on the spit, when I heard my father's voice, I woke myself and looked up from my little bed, under an awning on the sun baked ground. There he strode on the parade ground, coming toward me, his bronze greaves on his stocky legs, shining in the sun. For a moment, it was Father Zeus striding toward me and I called out to him, he laughed, throwing back his black haired head, opened his mouth wide and the air shook with his jovial roar. He opened his arms wide and swooped down to pluck me up. For a moment, I swung in the air, as though riding Apollo's golden chariot. The earth below me spun a glorious cavalcade of colour, the red of the trooper's mantles, the soft golden yellow of those of the pages, the brown of the earth, the black, and red of the officer's tents and the emerald green of the tall, dark forest off in the distance. Above it all rose my father's voice.

"What fine fortress have you built for me?" He put me down, and with Parmenion, Antipater's, Seleukos, Black Kleitos and his other close companions, examined my efforts. "Well done, my men will rest dry and safe in their beds. Neither _Apollo Farshooter_ nor red-armed _Ares_ himself could have done better." His compliment made me shine as though the sun had risen in my heart. That was one of my happiest days I will remember it always.

Continue to Part 5.


	5. Chapter 5

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 5

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

* * *

Five

I can smell the rich iron tang of the earth from Aigai. One can sense the ancient power dwelling there. It is locked in the rich and stony earth there, and rises into the air, where it meets tradition. Aigai, the ancient capital of Macedon, is the burial place of Macedonian kings. These hills, and the old palace, ring through with the ghosts of my ancestors. Here, my predecessor, Alexandros II, upheld the honor of Macedon when he killed the Persian envoys from Xerxes. When I was a child, Eurydike, my grandmother, my father's mother, would show me a mossy depression that lay deep in the dark forests. It was said to be their burial place. My grandmother spit on it as we passed it by on our horses. I pissed on it with the open pleasure of a small child, and she, much pleased, laughed aloud. I can hear still her high laughter ringing through the thick forest walls. I, knowing the legend, thought it fitting that Xerxes' vassals should forever lie captive in our soil, given no rites. Forever they will wander, never finding their Paradise.

A full moon cycle later, I sit in my new chambers, my head still rings with the chants and lamentations of the professional mourners and others, those, his friends who truly had loved him. And, I? Alexandros Philippou, his son - had I loved him? Had he been asked, what answer would he have given?

I dismiss my pages, and sink down upon the couch picking at my supper. Ptolemy and Black Kleitos, who sup with me tonight, encourage me to eat but I cannot, my mind spins, and will not be quiet. I dismiss them and walk in thought, in my my rooms, with the memories that live in between these walls.

These rooms, stately, elegant, with their marble floors, and gilded pear wood furniture, once boomed with my father's voice. Here, in his study on these thick green, black and gold carpets, I ran to greet him as a child and clamored for his love and attention. Here, within these walls with their finely painted murals of the gods, here, beneath their watchful eyes, we became friends and then wary enemies.

My eyes stray toward an old nemesis, the painting of the birth of Athena. No longer a child, the painting holds no dark secrets to frighten me again. Now I bow to that gracious grey-eyed lady, knowing better the wisdom of her secrets. I think back for a moment to my visit to the great shrine at the Acropolis in Athens. She loomed over me, there, in the dark, sacred recesses of the Parthenon, gleaming and golden, her shield in hand, her owl, wise eyed on her shoulder. Even Hephaistion, who had visited her shrine before, was awestruck again, at the sight of her. I left, as a sign of my fealty and love for her, three jet-black bulls, the best that had been culled from the herd in Macedon. They bellowed aloud, when standing before her shining eyes, and lowered their heads in submission before the knife swung against their throats.

I can feel tears start, the merest sting of them behind my eyes. I shut my eyes against them, but fail in my fight against them, as I can feel their wetness as they fall along my face. If I give into the feelings they will come, but do I want them to? Can I allow myself to go toward that place? And if I do, will I be able to turn back so easily, as I once might have?

My mother - I can feel her chary eyes on me these days. Do I do my duty to my dead father and bring my mother up before the Assembly on charges? Do I dare to look inside myself and lay the accusation bare? However, this is Macedon, and kings die fast if they are weak. I must be as iron, I must survive, I will survive and what of my mother? I sigh loudly, thinking of her flashing blue-grey eyes that she would lay with such scorn on my father. Such firm resolve runs through her veins, were it not so; she would have failed in her task long ago. Would it have made my father love me more? Would I have respected him more? I do not dwell long with these questions.

My mother is dear to me, only Hephaistion holds the place higher. Yet she is perhaps my greatest enemy, for she knows all my weaknesses and will think nothing of it now, to play on them. Still she intrigues, only now for my honor, but it brings me no peace. Yet, I cannot lay blame at her feet for being a woman. It is her misfortune the gods did not choose to make her a man, indeed she would have been a splendid one. I am glad of this, for I would then have had to kill her, for she would have been a wicked adversary; so perhaps I will not question the wisdom of the gods.

For a moment, I close my eyes, feeling I might crack from the pressure within me. I have long dreamed of, long wanted, this. I will not deny it. I think, from the time I was first in my father's camp, as the smallest child, I knew, I longed for what he had. Yes, I did covet it, knowing even then, in some part of myself, that I would surpass him. Yet, sometimes with the dream comes the true and bitter meaning of things.

Then I recall the feel of _his _hand on my shoulder and am calmed. Even without words, without speaking, Hephaistion knows my thoughts. And even though he is not here with me in the flesh, just remembering the feel of his hand upon my skin, I am quieted. My father, my mother, yes, I could lose these and still go on, but take Hephaistion from my sight, threaten to remove him from my life, and I fear I would go mad. He is the comforting voice of the gods in my head easing the madness that sometimes lingers there.

I think on Aigai, I once used to take great joy in going there, to savor the history and the memories. Aigai, the name - it conjures up a scent of fruit blossoms and ripe apples, and now, the iron tang of the earth in my father's tomb. My grandmother, my father's mother, Eurydike's laughter comes back to me sharp as the scent of blood on the wind. I can hear it in my ears, light as the music of the flute. I had heard long ago the stories of her, the gossip, but knew her only as a woman who loved me. In her sleek black eyes I saw no sign of a wife who killed her husband. She is not the stuff of a myth, but a woman who was strong and proud, trying to protect her own. For this alone in Macedon, I know, although it is not said in my presence, but I have ears, for this she has earned enemies. In Lyncestis, Orestes, and along other highland cantons, my grandmother is a black, ill-benighted Fury. To this she laughs and flings herself on her black horse and rides as only a true warrior will with her head held high. Should any press their complaint nearer, her knife will answer for her.

In her, I see the mother who struggled dearly, pinned, and held strong, against great odds to protect her sons' rights, when others would steal their very lives and toss those rights into the bitter dirt.

She is not a gentle woman, nor is she docile. She is strong of mind and bearing, and knows how to swear, and once, to my childlike delight, pulled my father's ear, when he answered her back. Even my mother is a little in awe of Eurydike. However, for me she wears a wreath of smiles when we meet. To me the eyes of the Great Mother shine forth in her smile and I have always loved her.

She would run down the long stairway in the old rough palace there and catch me up in her arms, kissing my face in greeting, when I was but the smallest child. She would sweep me and the rest of my siblings away to her chambers, which she occupied for celebration of the Dionysia, where lemon water, honey cakes, stuffed grape leaves and fresh, ripe Mieza apples would await us, a small feast out from under the watchful eye of our nurses.

I treasured those days, where the power was in the hands of an older woman who kept even my mother and father at bay. There I felt like what I knew I was destined to be, a king, a divine ruler. I had my grandmother's heart, how could I be anything else? Even Lanike said I was less quarrelsome when with my grandmother. Perhaps it was the long lazy days and sweet nights tucked up under a fur-lined spread, being sung to sleep with the stories of the great heroes, Thesus and Jason. There I felt shielded from the storms that would so rock the palace at Pella.

Poor Lanike, she of the long-suffering quiet – cursed to be the nurse of one such as I. Zeus be praised she suffered me. Or I her, she laughs now, when we see one another. Yet, truly, she gave me love, and taught me patience and persistence. Yea, I find laughter rising in me, along with a memory - I persisted long and hard when I kicked against my locked chamber door, wanting out, when I was being punished for some small childish transgression. She would call out, "Alexandros, how can one child be so vex some? You will drive me to my grave." I would reply, yelling as loudly as I might dare, "Then release me from my prison, let me out and I will vex you no longer. I will run away to the forests and you will never see me again. I will live with the wolves."

Of course, she would laugh in her high, bright voice and open the door. There she would stand, the general measuring her insubordinate troop. I would narrow my eyes at her, clench my small fists behind me, knowing I could wait her out, and she would sigh loudly cursing Zeus for the burden she must bear of raising me. I would rise up then, on my toes, smack a kiss on her cheek and run off as quickly as I could, before she could realize I was free and she might snatch me back and imprison me once again. I was most willful as a child, this I do now acknowledge, and she was wonderfully patient, and I love her most dearly. Sometimes I feel that she was the mother of the child, while Olympias was mother of the boy. And who was mother to the man? That is a question for which I have no answer. Do men have need of mothers? Are they not by then grown and put aside childish fears and needs? I have told Hephaistion this, and he smiles in that wise way of his. He knows the truth.

My Grandmother and I, we would go riding, and she would measure her skill with the bow against mine. Being part Thracian, a thing we don't speak of at Pella, Grandmother had been trained to the bow. In her I saw the beautiful long haired, dark eyed Penelope awaiting Odysseus' return, standing tall and regal against the suitors, waiting to do them battle should they transgress where not allowed.

She could ride all the day, like my mother and never complain of weariness. My favorite place was the great waterfall that ran down alongside the gorge near the old ruins of a grey stone temple to Dionysius. That great sheet of water, rumbling and thundering and pounding its way down toward a deadly outcropping of rocks below. It was always in the wood near there that the Dionysia was celebrated. Aigai was all these things, the succulent fragrance of fresh spring lamb and goose and deer, roasting with garlic and rosemary in the palace kitchens, sticky honey cakes, trees budding pink and red, the clear blue spring skies and Hephaistion's violet blue eyes. Hephaistion… I sigh aloud, thinking on him. I miss him terribly.

Continue to Part 6.


	6. Chapter 6

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, 6

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

Picks up after Part 5.

* * *

Six

As I pace my private chambers, my feet sliding on the richly colored carpets that my mother had installed along with the other new furnishing, all I could think of was Hephaistion. I have been the newly proclaimed King for several passing moons, and the might of the Macedonian army, my father's glorious army now my army at my beck and call, and all I dwell on, in private, is Hephaistion and his bright quick laughter and wicked smile, that so calms my wild heart.

He has been near my side throughout those early weeks, never failing me, in thought or deed. He has been the strength in my muscles, when they became weary, my patience, when it would rise up into smoke toward a burning fire, ready to ignite upon all before me, the voice of clarity, when my arm would strike out, as it must, but he has counseled carefully, drawing out his arguments, persuading, that certain parties are better watched. To him, my distant kinsman, Alexandros of Lyncestis owes thanks. For he will cross with us the Hellespont, rather than lie a feast for the flies as do many others. Hephaistion has been the tears my eyes would not release, the release of weary breath, and laughter, which my soul needs for breath. His hands, as mine, have washed in blood, he has bathed in the blood of children these last months, but never has he decried to me the cruelness of it. For he knows it would be my blood, that lies pooling upon the blessed earth of Macedon, if we are not wary and vigilant in all regards these days. We have not the luxury of even watchfulness, but always actions, thoughtful action, yes, well placed action, but action, movement, and to strike before there is the chance for the upraised dagger to slice through my entrails.

In these past weeks, I have felt his eyes always shining and clear filled with intent and thoughtfulness, always watchful, wary for my person. Yet of late his duties, and my need to have certain work performed, have sent him from me, and I parted with him, unwillingly, but knowing he was the one, I could trust to see done certain work. It was a scourge upon my soul to send him forth, but only he I would trust, so great is this duty.

To have a hundred Hephaistion's would have been a treasure beyond compare, to have the one here with me now, would be all I need in the world.

I sip slowly on the rich wine from the cup in my hands. Hephaistion is like this wine, beyond compare, fit only for kings. I laugh at myself at the absurdity of my thoughts – mortal thoughts. The thoughts of a twenty year old man or youth, which am I? I am a man, yea this I know when I think of myself as Macedon's ruler, as general in chief of the army. There I know myself as the unassailable ruler and guardian of my people and leader of my army. With Hephaistion?

Then I smile, with Hephaistion I am Alexandros, and tears come. I know not from where, I only know the touch of them as they spill down my cheeks, wetting my mouth, and splitting something in my soul, letting it loose that has been caught and lodged there since my father's death. With Hephaistion, I am free of doubt and suspicion. He knows all and does not judge me. My Soul can rest in the shadow of his eyes, unfettered and distracted, completely at peace. I laugh to myself. I ought to write these words down and bestow them upon him, but such thoughts while they come easily to my heart, do not flow easily past my lips. Does he know how much he is loved?

For truly, with Hephaistion I can look back at myself and not run in fear from what shows back from deep within those eyes that echoed mine.

I touch my hand to my face; it comes away wet…Tears, such small passings brought forth from our bodies. I frown, what had Aristotle said about tears. I touch my hand to my tongue, salty, tears hold salt. This I've long known. I turn and go to the window, pausing to glance out toward the mountains and think myself away, beyond the shores of Hellas. Thinking of where he is, or might be. I've caused tears to fall from Hephaistion's eyes.

This is not a thought which gives me much pleasure. Yet, somehow, I feel I will do the same in the future. I pray to Apollo I will not, but know myself well enough. Hephaistion will forgive me; he always does, as I do him when it is I who cries. Why, I ask myself, do I cry now? Is it from loneliness? From the overwhelming events that have come to pass? I am without an answer.

There is so much to occupy my mind, the tributes from Athens, and the other city-states to honor my father; endless councils to call and attend; and the complete securement of my place as ruler, both here in Macedon and the rest of Hellas. Having to kill one's rivals bothers me little, it is the way of things, I cannot rule unless I have complete accord in Macedon. I will not tolerate the threat of blood feud in any manner, and have crushed those who would challenge me ruthlessly. I have been well trained. My father, indeed were he to speak with me now, would expect no less of me. Yet what of Athens, and Thebes and Corinth, what of Hellas - I know they will not accept me. I know, as surely as I know that I stand for Macedon that I will have to find some way to force them to it. I also know I will not be pushed back from what is mine. The hegemony of Hellas was allotted to my father and his heirs. Should they try to refuse it to me then I will take it. It is mine by divine right.

I wish Hephaistion were here, but I know within myself, I will do whatever I must to secure my place. It is my divine right to rule this land, no one shall keep me from it; no person or city shall prevent me from what is mine.

"We are the gods' will on the earth. Never forget that, and protect Macedon accordingly." I recall my father's words to me on the night before the battle of Chaeronea. We sat before his tent; the catwalk was dry and dusty and would creak whenever one of us would move about. He was in a thoughtful mode. He knew Greece was opening up before him, his dreams becoming attainable. It was as if the shine, which had lived long upon me, had transferred itself to him, and I near wept at the joy, I could see it would bring him. He had labored long for his victories.

With Parmenion, Krateros and Black Kleitos, my father's favorite, we sat around the fire and spun our dreams; a unified Hellas and then the invasion, which had been so long planned; the enslavement of Persia to Hellas. Hellas would throw off her chains and rise once more, like Aphrodite, shining and pure from the waters of Persian enslavement. Then had come that day, and Pausanias had gifted me in one quick downward stab - my destiny.

Plans for the Persian invasion, this is my foremost goal; I would consign the rest to Hades, were I able. For I believe, that there across the shining open seas lies my destiny. I have felt it since I was but a child.

The day I took Boukephalus from my father, I knew I would outshine him. I knew then, as though Apollo had breathed the words in my ear himself that I would rise higher than my father or any man who had come before me. Yes, even my ancestors, swift footed Akhilles and Herakles, son of Zeus. For I am the son of Zeus as well, therefore it is well that I should outdo them. I have their exploits, to study and best, as my pattern. However, beyond that, I have what was promised me by my damion, that day I first rode Boukephalus.

Standing at the window now, watching the courtyard filled with the never-ending stream of courtiers and other people, I remember still the wind in my face, the thrumming of Boukephalus' strong hooves on the black rich earth below, and the golden glow of Apollo before me rising in the sky. There I saw the glint against the sky, the shape that rose against my eyes when Boukephalus and I stopped at the edge of the marshes and heard the words of the Pythian himself whispered in my ear. I remember looking about myself, and patting Boukephalus' broad back wondering, thinking, and knowing the god had spoken to me. I told my mother and she offered for me, sent a private emissary to Delphi to question the oracle there. It came back revealing the same that across the sea lay my destiny. I recall she stood there, before me, her eyes glowing, the blue of her gown sharp and lovely as the hyacinths that bloom in the spring, and kissed me on the forehead, and bade me speak to no one, not even Hephaistion, of what had been revealed, for it was not for man to know the words of the god, only those whom the god had chosen would hear the truth. This I did, but in my own way did share little by little with Hephaistion what had been foretold me. For I knew as surely as I know my blood is not ichor, that Hephaistion is part of me. I cannot keep anything from him. This is as much his crown as it is mine. Oh, I know I would draw looks and gasps of disbelief, were I to say it aloud, but he is ever the air that I breathe, he is the blood too that flows through my veins. For this we have both known since we were children of tender years, a god foretold it to us both. And this we have shared with no one else, not even my mother.

He was led toward Pella on the night of his forth birth day commemoration. His family follows a strange feast in this regard. As we do not. However, his ancestors have different customs. Instead, we celebrate the day we were consecrated to the god. The story, he related to me, proved the truth of the omen he witnesses. For I too recall seeing the same star shoot across the sky, and heard the god's voice on the wind call my name as he heard it call his.

Yet, I cannot, and would not, shirk my duties to my people. I will leave them protected; they are my gold and silver. I would leave them safe, lest they become my tears. Antipater and I have already discussed these things; he knows my mind, and has found it unmovable even though he longs to push it along other paths. I will not be moved. I know my destiny. Even Parmenion knows this, though he thinks I'll be malleable in his experienced hands. His dispatches to me from Asia's shores tell me this much. He is remembering Philippos' son, and does not realize, that that boy has become a man, who is king. I sigh, thinking on Parmenion, I honor the man for his service to my father and his brilliance; clearly he is worth his weight in gold. However, already he is taking exception with my policies assured in his position as my chief general. He acts the experienced elder to my boy king; I know he thinks this, for I have seen his correspondence. He is quandary I will have to ponder, and would that Hephaistion were here to discuss it with.

As much as I want Persia, I must go north, and make secure my country. And indeed, I smile, knowing the joy of battle; it is calling to me even now. I can feel the lance in my hand, the sweat of the field under the hot sun rolling down my face. I love the call of Ares I am enthralled by it.

Continue to Part 7.


	7. Chapter 7

Alexandros: Private Thoughts, Final

Author: Lysis –Revised (Copyright © December 2012,

Originally posted 2006 by Selket -Elizabeth C. Owens)

* * *

"Ah, such a thing it is to be King," I sigh aloud, wishing again for a sight, even a small one of Hephaistion. Then the guard at my door knocks, I call out, and through it strides to my great surprise Hephaistion.

"Hephaistion!" I rush to him joyfully as the door swings shut behind him. I see the quickest wink in Ptolemy's blue eyes as the door closes on him. I would take Hephaistion in my arms, but he stands before me as on parade, full of pride, and stiff – he is apart from me. He is in full dress armor and is a glorious sight to behold. His Corinthian helmet, with its bright red cockade, is burnished until it is like the glowing moon, and his breastplate bearing the image of Apollo Farshooter shines proudly upon his broad chest. He stands before me – no longer the wild Dionysius of my boyhood, but now my Patroklos, in truth.

"My King," he begins, keeping his eyes on the distance. I find myself frowning, what is this? Have I displeased him somehow, and quickly search my memory for some small transgression, I might have caused these past weeks, without thinking. For there has been much that has caught my attention and I have let slide things, I ought to have paid better attention.

"Hephaistion, ease yourself, you need not stand as on duty with me. It is just we two here, there are no others." He gives me a long look, which I cannot understand, and my heart jolts.

"My King," he begins again, and I cut him off, my voice rough as it hides my fear.

"Why am I now only your King?"

"Because, my lord, that is who you are now the High King of the Macedonians and soon, by the grace and will of the Gods, the Hegemon of all Hellas." He looks a bit uncomfortable, and for the slightest moment, I am glad. I am sore confused, by his manner.

I shake my head, my brow furrowed with a frown, "Am I not –" I pause, arguing with myself, then go ahead, "Am I not your Alexandros? Are you not my Hephaistion?"

"Aye, I am Hephaistion, son of Amyntor, ever your most loyal and dutiful servant, my King."

"Hephaistion!" I turn from him, my eyes searching the frescoed walls, as if the painted Gods' visages can give me some prompting, why is this happening? Where is _my_ Hephaistion? Who is this man who stands before me, so full of pride and dignity and respect, but none of the happy laughter, the softness, I so cherish, sparks anywhere on his handsome face? His face is one of grave responsibility and duty. Very well, I tell myself, I am his King, so it shall be. I turn back to him.

"Yes, lord Amyntor, what business have you with me, your King?"

I search his face intently, I would think him more at ease, but it appears less so. His fine eyes darken, they seem sad, I chide myself for my imaginings.

"My King, that duty you have requested of me has been done. Parmenion - his fealty secured. As to the other, these, my King, will tell you his position." Then I see for the first time a clutch of small scrolls held tightly in his hand. I take them, knowing what they contain, and chide myself for my childish behavior. I understand now, the reason for his demeanor. How can I, who knows it better than the sound of my own heart, forget the toll Ares can enact on the warrior in service to his call?

"He is dead?"

"He is."

I can feel my heart lighten, knowing Attalos will hinder me no more. Gods how I hated the man! He, a man who would mock and slur my birth, and slander the name of my mother, the mother of his king's heir, without the slightest thought or care, so secure was he in my late father's affections. Well, I am not Philippos! Because of him I was exiled and my Mother's good name slandered. He should have had a care for the uncertain ways of the Fates. I can rest easier now.

"Excellent work, my Lord Amyntor, I will not forget your loyalty." I smile and our eyes meet. I see something in Hephaistion's, I did not think to see at such an assignment; joy. "Thank you, Hephaistion. Only you can I trust with such work." I utter the words more gently, looking into his eyes. Now they smile back at me.

"It was a pleasure, my King." He bows and then removes his helmet when I gesture with my hand as I hand him a cup of wine. He sighs loudly while he drains it and I pour another.

"Will you not call me Alexandros? Am I changed so much?" I embrace him, but can feel stiffness, wariness in him.

"Always be Hephaistion for me," I murmur into his ear. "I will be Alexandros for you, always, only you, Hephaistion."

He puts me away from himself with a small sigh and stands back at attention again. "You are the king now, Alexandros that cannot be forgotten."

"I do not forget," I cry out, facing him. "But, my love for you has not changed, nor has my need. I need you as much as the air I breathe, the blood that courses through my body. Will you deny me? Nothing has changed with you and I, Hephaistion, nor will it, ever. I have sworn on this to you!" I put out my arms, "You are ever my Soul! Will you not come embrace me again?"

He laughs softly, almost as though in jest with himself. "I would not abuse the sacred person of my king." Yet pulls off his sword belt and tosses it on an ivory table, where the sword settles with a soft thud. I turn from him to keep the pain in my eyes from him.

"It is not your king here now, but Alexandros." I answer, turning toward him. Must I shout it aloud, can he not see, does he not know, that between us, when in private, we are only Alexandros and Hephaistion?

At this, his face softens and he comes toward me and grabs me full in his embrace.

I kiss him long and hard, roughly I use him, trying to possess him with that simple act, to put my brand on him. I drink in the feel of him beneath my hands, the softness of his hair, the coolness of his cheeks, the moistness of his lips – remembering the boy, he once was, and the man, he is now, and my love for him. I look up into his beautiful eyes, push back his hair, and whisper in his ear, "Come, abuse your king, he longs for it."

Hephaistion laughs wickedly and before I can catch my breath, we are across the room, toward my private sleeping chambers. We are too quick in our haste as we move toward a table, and in our fever, sending it with a good shove against the wall. The air is filled with sound, the echo of gold plate falling, dishes clatter to the carpet covered floor, but some knock against the wall and ring loudly. We both smile, were anyone but Ptolemy and Erigyios on duty, the door to the outer chamber would now be echoing with frantic pounding. I push him against a wall, hoping to enclose him in my arms, my captive, he smiles, the sweetness of the Cyprian's touch lingers there, and I am entranced and trace with my fingers his mouth. His eyes blind me, their love catches me off guard, and I fall, but am raised up with tender arms, but I am not tender of mood and pull him down to kiss, with our bodies resting on the silken carpets beneath us. Again, we move our souls meet quickly, with only the breath of time in between.

We finish quickly; passion held in for weeks spends fast when finally given release. As we lie together satiated and drowsy, I feel sleep come upon me, and close my eyes, feeling the softness of his skin beneath my face. He sighs and I feel something trickle down my shoulder, a tear? How can this be? It is not like Hephaistion to cry after love. I stroke his hair.

"What is it, Hephaistion, what sorrows you?"

He smiles and kisses my brow, "Not sorrow, Alexandros, joy. I had thought…" he stops and turns away his head toward the wall.

"Hephaistion, speak, come tell me, what troubles you, I would know all, the deepest thoughts of your Soul, if you would but share them." I catch his chin in my hand. His eyes spill over. "Hephaistion!" I cry out, pulling him close to my heart. "What troubles you!?"

"A small thing, such a small thing, I am ashamed to think on it." He smiles now a little, and brushes away the tears. I wait for him to continue. His voice trembles, but I am quiet, knowing he must speak of his own will, for I've an idea of his trouble.

He sighs deeply, running a hand through my hair, "Alexandros, without you I would be as a man drowning." He stops and smiles widely, taking my hand in his and kisses it, "And, I can see, I am not without." He takes a deep breath and gestures he would sit up, I plump the pillows behind him, he continues, his tone serious, solemn. "I knew our lives would change with this," he waves his hand around my new chamber, the lavish furnishings, the golden filet that rests on a purple cushion near my armor. "Yet, long we have talked of it, and both have known what we are to the other." I smile and shake my head to show my agreement of this, but he frowns and I sign for him to continue, "I feared that in my desire to fulfill my duty to you, I…., I, feared I would fail you. On the ship to Asia, whenever there was a storm, my guts rose in my mouth, not that I feared drowning, but that were I to die, by some foul mischance, that I in my failing to reach my desired place would have left you vulnerable. Oh, I." He stopped then, his voice breaking on a soft sob. I pulled him into my arms to soothe him. '

"Ah, never, Hephaistion, never." I shake my head at his words. "You could not fail me, never, even in dying you would not fail me, because I know, that even as you would lay dying –"

"My last thoughts would be of you." He sighed softly raising a finger to touch my eyes, and take away the tears there.

I bow my head and kiss him. "I need you more; I need you as I have always needed you, Hephaistion. You are the very spark of life within me. Without you by my side I cannot live." He stops my hands that move off in all directions, as though I am exhorting the very air with my argument.

"Please, I must finish." I nod, "When you asked, bid me, handle Attalos and Parmenion for you, I was pleased. No, I was beyond honored, that you came to me first, before anyone else, that you trusted me with so much. Then I began to fear I would fail you. What experience have I in such matters? True, you sent others to guide and accompany me, but it was in me you trusted the most. I want never to let you down, Alexandros, and yet, knowing I am human, I know I will, and for that I …. I…"

I said nothing for a long while, for what could I say in the face, the depth of such loyalty, love and honor. I grabbed his hand and kissed his open palm, and rose from my bed and took up the golden filet in my hand, and pressed it into his palm, and closed my hand upon them both. "You honor me Hephaistion, but I would honor you. This I promise. I will raise you high; none shall rise higher, in the end the world will see. Kings are not made, Hephaistion, even by the will of the Gods, they are borne from love, from their creators and called up to greatness. You, my beloved Hephaistion, are as much my creator as Zeus, Philippos and the others. Never forget, we are as one Soul, and in you is also that greatness, you are also a King. Do not forget. I do not. " I whispered, overcome with emotion, as I find myself prone to at such times, but smiled, as I looked into Hephaistion's happy eyes," we are Akhilles and Patroklos."

FINIS


End file.
